How could a lady even make any reply? She’d only done what he himself had arranged. He’d have been equally angry if she’d defied him. “I don’t know what I’ve done to incur your displeasure, but I wish you would have the goodness to resolve it with me in private, rather than attempting to punish me with these uncivil words and coarse machinations in view of the entire company.”
“Resolve it with you in private?—don’t you wish I would.” His eyes and his laugh made lewd allegations, apparently heedless of the accusation he’d just issued regarding her partiality for another man. He was utterly beyond reason now.
She took the napkin from her lap and put it on the table. “I cannot speak to you when you are in this state. Nor can I remain here and be the target of your abuse.” Her pulse hammered like an overzealous blacksmith. She’d never addressed him so—doubtless he’d be angrier than ever—but to stay had become insupportable. “If everyone will excuse me, I shall take my distracting presence elsewhere that you may enjoy the rest of your meal.”
“My room, Lydia. I trust you remember the way?”
She’d avoided, these last few moments, any glance toward the place where Mr. Blackshear sat, but this utterance brought her round to face him before she could think whether she ought. Indeed everyone at the table swiveled likewise, more than one piece of cutlery clanking or screeching against a plate as a diner was brought up short by this unexpected development.
He, in contrast, was the picture of unruffled poise. He’d lifted his goblet and now brought it to his lips, eyelids lowered, without the smallest sign of awareness that he’d just hurled a firebomb into the proceedings. His use of her given name alone must throw into doubt their previous accounts of what had transpired last night.
Someone touched her chair. The footman, come to draw it out. One deep breath, and she would rise.
Will lowered his glass and leaned a bit forward. “That will be agreeable to you, I hope?” He laid the slightest emphasis on agreeable, the word around which Edward had built his accusation. He was smiling with everything but his eyes.
Without waiting for an answer he shot a brief glance to the end of the table where her protector sat. “I trust you won’t mind. I had the impression, from your recommending her to others, that you weren’t wanting her company tonight.” Like a single scarlet thread in white-work, the strain of menace in his voice. Perhaps no one else in the room knew him well enough to discern it.
“Please yourself.” Edward laid hold of his own glass and brought it halfway up before a witticism occurred. “I daresay that’s what you did last night, all primed for a woman only to find her not inclined to open shop to you.”
Anger surged up in her then: all those wadded-up portions of anger she’d hoarded away sprang out to full size and drove her finally to her feet. “Would it be any wonder if I did prefer his bed to yours?” This was imprudent. This was precisely the kind of outburst she couldn’t afford. But so help her, she’d been prudent long enough. “He behaved with honor. He treated me with respect. A lady recognizes a debt to a gentleman who conducts himself so.” Was she really going to say this next bit? She oughtn’t. She courted disaster. But the words sat hot on her tongue; they’d burn her if she didn’t let them out.
She revolved just enough to face Mr. Blackshear, who watched her with calm interest, only his eyes betraying any trace of turbulence to match her own. “Your room, to be sure.” Her own blood roared in her ears. She curtseyed, eyes never leaving his. “Give me half an hour, then you may come after.”
No one could miss her meaning. Half an hour was the time it took a lady to undress.
And here was that gaze she’d seen before, the one that made her naked without ever roving away from her face. One hand dropped to his waistcoat and came back with a pocket watch. “Half an hour.” His eyelids lowered to consult the watch as he flicked it open. “You’ll have at least that long before I come.” He set the watch by his plate and didn’t look up again when she turned and left the room.
SHE HADN’T meant it, had she? He’d assumed she was only saying what she thought would spite Roanoke, and he’d been more than happy to abet her in that.
Will looked about him, and saw two or three glances hastily withdrawn. One of Miss Slaughter’s friends, the porcelain blonde, broke the short silence by forcefully proposing a round of charades after supper. Her gentleman protector seconded the scheme, and a number of well-intentioned souls who’d had their fill of unpleasantness chimed in with such zealous, dogged gaiety as charades had probably never before inspired in all the years of its existence. When the half hour ended they were still on the topic.
He set down his fork with his cutlet half-finished, and rose. No remark seemed quite suitable for the occasion, but he bowed. Several of the gentlemen nodded in return. Everyone pretended ignorance of the circumstances surrounding his departure save for another of Lydia’s friends—the dark-haired one—who caught his eye and winked, unabashed approval written all across her face. He picked up his watch and walked out.
What would he do if she’d meant it? Oblige her, you nodcock. But oblige her in what? If she intended to do this only for the purpose of avenging herself on her protector, then it really had little to do with him. And if he were ever to bed her, he wanted it to have everything to do with him.
More than likely she hadn’t meant it. Or if she had, her wrath would have subsided in the half hour. They’d have a good laugh at their outrageous counterfeit, and then retire to the bed and the floor as they’d done last night.
The walk upstairs and down the hall to his room gave him time enough to convince himself of this, and almost time enough to convince himself it was what he desired. He swung the door open, and every conviction fled before the sight of Miss Slaughter, in nightclothes, with her hair taken down.
She perched on the window seat, legs bent to one side in mermaid fashion, bare ankles visible past the hem of her dressing gown. Or rather, his dressing gown. A low humming started in his blood as that detail came clear.
She didn’t look at him. In her hand she held a glass of claret and she raised it to drink. Matter-of-factly she did this—no angling her neck to show him the delicate ripples of her swallow, no licking the wetness from her lips—but when she lowered the glass, one side of his too-large gown fell away from her shoulder, exposing the gleam of dark, dark purple silk beneath.
It was no nightgown she wore. His palms and fingers remembered, with a charge like static electricity, every quality of that fabric. So did his mouth. The humming in his blood kicked up to a low-level clamor.
He pulled the door shut behind him, his hand lingering at the knob. Eighteen or so inches higher was a bolt. Lock it, came the prompting from his hand and his blood and every other hasty part of him.
But to throw that bolt home would be to commit to the deed. In the slide and click of metal would be acquiescence to a drama with no worthy role for him. Yes, that action would say. I’m willing to serve as a mere convenient erection in your scheme. And was he?
He took his hand from the door and folded his arms across his chest. He wouldn’t decide just yet.
Miss Slaughter stirred: her shoulders rose with a breath. “I pride myself, you know, on acting rationally and deliberately.” Though the words must be for his benefit, she delivered them into her glass of claret. Now he’d absorbed the spectacle of her dress, he could perceive the half-empty bottle beside her on the seat.
Splendid. She’d be foxed. Another good reason not to succumb to the temptations of purple silk and his too-large dressing gown. He shifted to his left and leaned against the wall. “Indeed you’re one of the most rational and deliberate people I know.”
“I was not so at supper.” She lifted the glass and took another healthy swallow. Probably he ought to be calculating how best to get that bottle away from her.
“You were provoked.” He’d listen, he’d humor her, he’d coax the glass out of her hand, and he’d put her to bed before they could d
o anything ill-advised.
“He was so unreasonable.” Still she addressed the claret, her body perfectly still and her voice afire with vehemence. “I don’t only mean that he was rude and unkind. He had no consistent argument behind his attacks.”
Of course. Never mind that the man had crudely bullied her; she saved her outrage for his disregard of logic. “His reasoning did leave something to be desired.” He pushed off the wall and made his leisurely way to the armchair, unbuttoning his coat as he went. “He ought first to have made up his mind whether I debauched you, or spent a frustrated solitary evening on the floor. Insults lose a good deal of their sting when they contradict each other.”
“His remarks to you were despicable.” She set down the claret and fixed her gaze out the window. Near a full minute he’d been in this room, and she hadn’t looked at him once. “His worst conjectures of what we’re doing now are no more than he deserves.”
“Perhaps.” Here was precarious ground; he would cross it with care. He shrugged out of his coat and tossed it over the chair’s arm. “Though I must say I cannot occupy my mind overmuch with the matter of Mr. Roanoke and his deserts.”
“Nor should you.” In the line of her back he could see another deep breath. She turned, then, and rose from the window seat. She hadn’t fastened the dressing gown and it slipped right off as she stood, cascading down to pool about her ankles like water round the feet of some just-emerged ocean goddess.
But where a new-made goddess would wear only innocence, her bare skin in harmony with nature itself, Lydia Slaughter was dressed for sin. She hadn’t even bothered with the diaphanous overdress. Purple-black silk flowed from shoulder to ankle, inviting the eye to roam everywhere and to loiter most especially on the lascivious places: the ripe full breasts with nipples standing up in sharp relief; the curve of her belly down to the Y-shape at the juncture of her thighs.
Devil take him; how could he have been so utterly unprepared for this? He’d seen her before in this dress. He had ample acquaintance with her shape. He’d known, from the instant he entered the room and glimpsed her, what might be her intent.
And still his throat went dry. His brain stuttered and slowed. The clamor in his blood mounted to importunate heights.
You can’t. Not like this. She’s not in her right mind. If her eyes would only meet his, his body would recognize her for a lady deserving of respect—for another man’s mistress—for something other than a luscious assemblage of parts—and he would find the words to make them both understand why they ought not to do this.
Maybe she knew that. At all events she kept her eyes from his. The silk rearranged itself in enthralling ways as she bent and twisted to pick up her claret. She drained the glass’s contents and set it decisively down. “Blackshear.” Finally she looked at him. “Don’t make me beg.”
And he’d be hanged if he could remember how to form any words at all. He could only watch, heart pounding like the charge of oncoming cavalry, as she turned and went to the bed.
Confound him a thousand times. He fooled precisely no one with his principles. When it came to the point he was entirely willing to be reduced to a convenient erection.
The claret, though. He wrenched himself from where he stood and went to the window seat. “How much of this have you drunk?” He hefted the bottle. Drink was suddenly sounding like a very good idea. “You scarcely ate any supper.”
“Don’t try to take care of me. That’s not what I need from you now.” They were a pair, she and her protector. Belligerent drunks, the two of them. And once again she’d found his weak spot; she’d gone to the word—need—that could make him crawl a mile on his belly over jagged rocks.
She needed something he could give. He set one steadying hand on the wall. “It’s not that I don’t want it, Lydia.”
“Then take it.” If he looked at her now he would be lost.
He drew in a ragged breath. “It’s not right this way.” Here was some small return of reason. “You’re in no condition to know what you want. I’d be taking advantage.” He tipped the bottle and splashed claret into the glass.
“I’ve known what I wanted since I left that dinner table.” A brief silence. “And I only had one drink.”
“Liar.” But he’d always admired the ruthless resolve with which she went after a thing she wanted. And when he himself was that thing …
He set down the bottle and picked up the glass. This was six different kinds of wrong. Cuckolding his host. Bedding a woman too drunk to know better. Risking this relationship all over again, this time with delicate confidences at stake. But somewhere between the first sight of her with her hair down and the unsporting use of the word need, choice had slipped through his fingers. “Shall I lock the door, or not?” He tossed off the drink in one grim string of swallows.
“As you please.” Oh, wasn’t she wallowing in her triumph now. Her syllables poured over him like honey from a spoon. Would she say his name in that voice when the time came, or would she cry it out, harsh as a hawk sighting prey?
He pivoted to face her and nearly had to sit down. She’d discarded her purple sheath while his back was turned and lay naked atop the covers, elbows propped behind her, knees bent up, feet flat on the counterpane. Her contours swerved here and subsided there, pale and lush and precise as if she’d been sculpted out of butter. There was not one part of her he didn’t want to sink into, not one inch of her he didn’t want to taste.
Devil take honor, and conscience, and all those tyrannical principles that harassed him sunup to sundown with their incessant promptings. He was a man who’d shredded his own soul, and tonight he was going to act like one. He went to bolt the door.
Chapter Sixteen
SHE WAS watching him, expectant and wholly without shame, when he turned to face the room. Her eyes glittered, hard and intent.
Now. Four steps brought him to the bed. He set one knee on the mattress and her legs edged apart. Greedy impatient thing. Just for that, she could wait a bit. He bent and pressed a luxuriant kiss on her kneecap.
“Stop that.” Her knee twitched away. “Take off your clothes.”
A dictatorial drunk as well as belligerent. But to obey this command was no hardship.
He pulled off his boots and his hose. Waistcoat, cravat, braces, shirt, all over his head and dropped helter-skelter on the floor. He stood.
She shifted, propping herself higher on the pillows, angling unabashedly for a better view.
His blood thundered like a river’s rapids as he obliged her, turning himself so she could see. One button after another slipped free and the front-fall of his breeches dropped away. He undid his drawers. He looked at her.
She swallowed. The tip of her tongue flicked out to wet her lips.
“Is this what you want?” All velvet and shadow, his voice, and pitched just loud enough to reach her. With his fingertips he stroked up his length. She’d been waiting for this. And Lord, so had he.
“I think perhaps …” She bit her lip, still staring. “Um.” Her eyes came to his, soft and uncertain. “Can you go in very slowly?”
It was beautifully done. But he knew her too well. He stepped out of his breeches. “Flattering minx.” He crawled back onto the bed, parting her knees with his hands to find his place between them. “You say that to every man.”
Her concerned expression dissolved into a deliciously wicked grin. “Every man loves to hear it. Even a man who knows it for flattery.”
He couldn’t argue. He couldn’t say anything at all. Was he really here at last? The insides of her thighs touching his hips where her knees bent up? His hands flat to the mattress on either side of her, his chest brushing over the unholy abundance of her bosom, her shoulders elevated from the elbows still propped behind her and her mirthful face mere inches from his? This was so wrong in so many ways. How could it feel so magnificently right?
“Lie back.” He nudged her forehead with his.
“No.” She stayed where she was.
<
br /> So it would be that way, would it? Well enough. They had all night to negotiate who was in charge. He lowered his hips and the head of his cock met her soft flesh, honey-slick from desire.
He closed his eyes and shuddered. “I want you so much,” he whispered. Damnation. He wasn’t going to last long, this first time. But he’d make it up to her. Repeatedly.
“Don’t tell me.” He opened his eyes to meet bold unblinking defiance very like what he’d seen that first night in the library when she’d caught him watching. “Show me. Now.”
“In truth, Lydia.” He sounded as though he were being stretched on the rack. “Do you need me to start slowly?”
“No, Mr. Blackshear.” Her eyes glinted like agates, a mere handsbreadth away. “I need you to fuck me as hard as you can.”
The breath burned inside him and the edges of his vision went hazy. Bloody hell. This was going to be a battle every step of the way, wasn’t it? He shook his head, and braced himself on one hand as he sent the other to caress her thigh. “I’ve waited a long time for this.” With his voice, too, he could caress her. “I mean to savor it.”
“No.” She swatted at his hand. “No lingering.”
“I’ll only linger over the parts you enjoy.” Hanged if he’d let her turn this into something quick and brutish and utterly devoid of meaning.
“I’ve told you what I enjoy. You may believe I know my own tastes.” Her voice was growing thin with agitation. She twitched like a cornered animal. “Don’t dare fancy you’ll be the man to teach me the pleasures of tenderness.” Tenderness was a rat whose neck she wrung with her own hands before hurling it over the hedge to rot with feelings.
And of course he’d fancied he’d be exactly that man. Or at the very least, that they’d do this with some acknowledgment of what had been between them. He’d already had intimacy of her in her confidences on their walk outside, in the way she’d trusted him to comfort her last night in this same bed. What on earth did she expect to gain by treating him like a paying customer now?
A Gentleman Undone Page 21
